


Foundling

by larisa5656



Category: 10th Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Retelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-08-23 04:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16612052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larisa5656/pseuds/larisa5656
Summary: "Magic is merely a tool.  It takes a living, breathing being to wield and shape its power."A retelling of The 10th Kingdom with a new character.





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_Once upon a time in Red Riding Hood Forest, 2nd Kingdom . . ._

_Huff-puff, this is the life_.

The wind whooshed through Wolf’s dark hair as he ran through the forest without worry or agenda.  He wove around tree trunks and bounded over fallen twigs, laughing as he went.

The sun glittered radiantly through the branches above him, and in a moment of spontaneous inspiration, he tried howling at it as if it were the moon.  The resulting sound didn’t carry any of the volume or ferocity that his father’s did, but that hardly mattered to the six-year old.  If ever his bare feet collided with a loose rock or slipped as he climbed over a mossy log, the disruption was also only temporary, as he was soon back on his quest to adventures unknown.  His mother had shooed him outside with only a bundle of bacon sandwiches and a reminder to be home by sundown, and he was determined to make use of this free time.

Like most families of their ilk, Wolf and his parents were frequently on the move, flitting from one place in the Nine Kingdoms to another and never staying anywhere for more than a few months.  They might spend one month in a straw cottage on the outskirts of Little Lamb Village, then another two months hiking and scavenging through the Dragon Mountains, followed by a (blessedly brief, in Wolf’s opinion) month in a garret in Kissing Town.  Wolf wasn’t certain why they always had to move, but he knew it had something to do with his wolfish father and human mother.  Wherever they went, villagers seemed to cower at the sight of them, whispering words like “dangerous” and “unnatural” when they thought Wolf couldn’t hear them.  It was, of course, only a matter of time before that fear turned to suspicion and hostility, and Wolf’s family had to leave again.

If there was one thing Wolf was certain of though, it was that their current residence deep in Red Riding Hood Forrest was his favorite home thus far.  For the past month and a half, they had lived in a house carved from a giant tree trunk, large enough to accommodate them but also able to blend in with the surrounding woodland.  Every morning, he climbed high up into the tree’s branches to view what seemed like miles and miles of greenery spread out before him.

Aside from some squirrels, rabbits, and birds, they were mostly alone in the forest, though his father had indicate there might be a nearby wolf pack.  If all continued to be quiet and safe for them, he might one day soon introduce them and that would mean friends for Wolf to play with.

The lack of any nearby human villages, however, was both a blessing and a hindrance for Wolf.  On the one hand, he and his father now had the freedom to run about without worrying about being shot at by a local huntsman.  On the other hand, grazing farm animals—especially sheep—had always been a source of fascination for the young pup.  He could spend hours observing their fluffy masses and thinking up new ways to sneak up on them.  On the one hand again, lack of sheep also meant a lack of pesky, beguiling shepherdesses who always startled _him_ with their shrieks and swinging crooks.  Yes, it was probably best that Wolf was currently free of the temptation of both sheep and shepherdess alike . . . for now.

Wolf slowed his pace as he approached a nearby stream, thinking to stop for a quick drink.  His ears then perked at the sound of a twig snapping in the stream’s direction, and a new idea came to mind.  Perhaps with any luck and a little cunning, this respite might also provide an opportunity to practice his sheep-stalking skills on the unsuspecting animal ahead.

Hunkering onto all fours, he edged up to a cluster of water willows along the stream’s bank, slowly parting a flowery stalk just enough to get a better view.  From his vantage point, he couldn’t see anything, but a rustling noise and the snap of a second twig was all the confirmation he needed that something was indeed there.  As quietly as possible, he leaned back on to the balls of his feet and drew a deep breath, just as his father had taught him.   Then, with as violent a growl as he could manage, he leapt over the shrubbery and into cool flowing water, his arms spread wide to make him seem all the more menacing.

Nothing.

Wolf turned in a circle, his eyes frantically scanning the landscape in front of him.  Aside from the light breeze that continued to tickle his hair, he saw no indication that anything had been there.  No quivering branches on the opposite shore to give indication of a hasty retreat.  No glimpse of a tail as it disappeared behind a tree trunk.  He looked up at the trees overhead, but even they seemed clear of any birds.

“Huff-puff, that’s typical,” Wolf muttered as he sank back onto his rump by the water’s edge.  He gazed morosely at the sunlight reflecting off the water and, his ego sufficiently deflated, pondered his next adventure.

A third snapping twig barely registered in his mind . . . until it was followed by a soft wail.  The sound continued to build in intensity, becoming an indignant cry that made Wolf’s ears prickle.  Again, he looked around for the source, but saw nothing.  The cry seemed to be carried along on the rushing stream, and so he saw no other choice but to follow it.

He didn’t have to go far.  Fifty feet from where he sat, the stream veered to the right, curving around a cluster of wildflowers.  And at the base of those wildflowers lay a wriggling, squalling bundle of blankets.

Crouching next to it, Wolf cautiously peeled back the top blanket.  He had already guessed the source of the cry when he first heard it, but he was still surprised to find a red-faced infant beneath, its tiny fists clenched and waving against its confinement.  When Wolf removed the rest of the blankets, he found that the infant wore a simple but well-made cotton shift and woolen booties.  It couldn’t have been more than a few months old, yet it already had a full head of slightly matted, dark brown curls.

Once freed, the infant’s cries gradually subsided to a low whimper and the bashing arms fell still at its side.  Bright blue-green eyes found Wolf’s brown ones, and for a moment the two could only stare at each other in silent assessment.

Without breaking eye contact, Wolf reached out a finger to stroke along the baby’s cheek.  Though he half-expected it to disappear at his touch, his finger instead met corporeal skin as soft as a flower petal that ended in a tiny human ear no different than his own.  A cursory glance at the opposite side of the baby’s head confirmed a second ear.  No claws, only five wee fingers on each hand, and—Wolf pulled off the booties—yes, ten little human toes.

The baby had been quiet until now, its eyes seeming to inspect Wolf by sight as much as he did by touch.  Growing bold, he completed his inspection with a casual boop on its nose, drawing back in case this roused the being to supernatural action.  It scrunched up its nose and closed its eyes on impact, but when the eyes opened to meet Wolf’s again, they seemed to flash a brighter blue then before as the baby laughed.  The sound echoed like a tinkling bell along the stream and the wildflowers above it seemed to sway in time.

While it was no clear that the baby wasn’t a monster in disguise, the question still remained . . .

“How did you get here?” Wolf asked, not so much to the baby itself as to the surrounding wilderness.  Looking around him once more, he continued, “Are your parents nearby?  Did they send you out to play like my mom?”

Naturally, the baby didn’t answer, having become distracted with pumping its legs against the blankets.

“Who are you?” Wolf tried again.

Still no response.  Either the baby had no idea who it was either, which seemed silly to him, or it felt other matters, like gnawing on its fist, were more important.

Then, as the baby half-rolled onto its side, Wolf saw a corner of paper sticking out between two blankets.  The thick, cream-colored card fit in the palm of his hand and was embossed with swirling vines and tiny flowers in gold along the edges.  Curiously, there was no writing on the card, and when Wolf turned it over, the other side was equally blank.  He flipped the paper over a few more times, trying to find some indication of its purpose.  The baby watched his growing frustration with an unmistakable twinkle in its eye; if he didn’t know any better, Wolf would think the wee one was amused by his struggle for answers.

“Do you know what this is?” Wolf asked, proffering the card in surrender.  Yet again, the baby had no clear response, merely gurgling contentedly.  As vexed as he was in this moment, Wolf couldn’t help but smile back.

“You’re a tricksy little one, aren’t you?  Whatever am I to do with you?” he continued, slumping down onto his side.

No sooner were the questions out of his mouth than the card began to glow.  Wolf and the baby both watched in fascination as six words appeared in spidery script in the center.

 _Take good care of her, Wolf_.

Wolf wasn’t sure which intrigued him more: the knowledge that the baby next to him was a girl or that the card somehow knew his name.  The former suddenly seemed obvious, as he now observed her long, feathery eyelashes and rosebud lips.  As for the latter, while this foreknowledge was to be expected from a magical object, it still made him feel uneasy that said object was giving _him_ orders.

The card flashed again, and a small leather pouch appeared in Wolf’s other hand.  Inside he found a collection of gold coins and a necklace.  He immediately tried to count the coins but soon had to stop because he didn’t know how to count past twenty.  The fact that there were still many more coins to be accounted for made his heart pound and palms sweaty as he anticipated just how many bacon sandwiches his family would be able to buy.  No, forget bacon; surely, these coins would be enough to buy a whole pig, roasted and succulent on a spit.

The necklace was, in Wolf’s opinion, less remarkable: a simple leather cord with a single silver pendant in the shape of a flower.  No, not just any flower.  A rose in full bloom, similar to the ones Wolf’s father sometimes procured for his mother.  Next to him, the baby went still, her eyes wide and mouth hung open in an O, just as transfixed by the jewelry gleaming in the sunlight as he had been by the coins.

“See, it’s a rose.  Most girls think they’re pretty,” he said, dangling it over her.

Her arms reached out to the swaying necklace as if to catch it, and her eyes again flashed blue.  Wolf was coming to recognize these flashes as similar to the gold ones his and his father’s eyes sometimes emitted in times of high emotion.  Happy to obliged her curiosity, he continued to suspend the necklace within her line of vision.  Sometimes he gently swung it back and forth just to see if her eyes followed (they did!).

“You know, my mom really likes roses too,” Wolf reminisced.  “There’s a rhyme she always hums about them.  It goes something like ‘Roses are red / Violets are blue / Wolfies are tricksy / and protective too.’”

It seemed only natural then for him to take the necklace and secure it around her neck.  The cord extended down to her midriff, giving just enough slack for her to grab a portion to gnaw on.  A satisfied smile spread across her face, and even the plant life around them seemed to sigh in pleasure.

“Glad you like it,” Wolf said, feeling warm and peaceful just watching her.  Then, an idea occurred to him and he snapped his fingers.  “Hey, that’s what I’ll call you: Rose.  What do you think, Rose?  Rose, Rosie, Rose.”

The baby was initially startled by the snapping sound, the cord dropping from her mouth.  Then, as Wolf continued to repeat his chosen name, she gurgled, kicking her legs in time.

“Rose, it is!” he declared, lying back down next to her and staring up at the wildflower blossoms above them.  The pair lay like that for some time, the silence broken only by Wolf’s occasional half-hummed, half-warbled repetitions of the “Roses are red” rhyme.

Awhile later, a sudden rumble in Wolf’s stomach reminded him of his bacon sandwiches.  He sat up and retrieved one from his bundle, gulping it down in three bites.  He turned to offer his companion a second sandwich, only to remember that babies, like little lambs, needed milk instead.  And the closest place that would have milk was back in his family’s tree house.

Leaping to his feet, he returned the coins and card to the leather pouch, securing it with the remaining sandwiches in his bundle.  Then he picked up Rose, being careful to cradle her head in a manner like what his dad had taught him with rabbits and kittens.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” he soothed when she wriggled and fussed at her upright position.  “I’m gonna take you to home, and mom will get you something yummy to eat.”

The walk back to the tree house was decidedly less carefree, but Wolf still felt a sense of pride in knowing that he was returning home with such an important package.  At one point, Rose rested her head in the croak of his neck and fell asleep.  As her little breaths fluttered warm along his neck, he knew in that instance that he would follow the card’s instruction to the letter.  Whoever and whatever she was, he and his parents would protect this baby as if she had been born to them.  _Wolfies are tricksy / And protective too_ , he repeated, both to himself and later when he presented Rose to his astonished parents.

*          *          *          *

Perhaps it was the addition of baby Rose or merely the seclusion of their new home, but either way, Wolf’s family broke the pattern of frequent relocations that year.  In fact, they resided quite happily in the tree house for another six years.  During that time, Wolf flourished in the woods, reveling in the freedom to roam and, later, to teach his sister about the plants and animals they encountered.

While they did eventually become acquainted with other young wolves and gypsies in the area, it was still expected that you would never see the brother without the sister, or vice versa.  As Rose grew from an infant to an inquisitive toddler to crafty girl-child, Wolf was there to guide, abet, and—of course—protect her.  She followed suit as his partner-in-sheep-worrying.  When she discovered an ability to magically levitate objects at age five, her first instinct was not fear that it would make her an outcast but rather glee that she had another tool to use against the pesky squirrel outside her bedroom window.

It was only the passage of the Wolf Overhaul and Obedience Enforcement (a.k.a, W.O.O.F.) Act, signed by newly crowned Queen Red Riding Hood III, that drove the family from the Second Kingdom entirely.  Though they eventually resettled in the Thousand-Mile Forest in the Fourth Kingdom, the violence with which the Act was enacted took its toll on the parents.  Where Wolf’s mother and father had once been a jovial, loving pair, they suddenly became paranoid, obsessed with eating and the moon.  Even the “Roses are Red” song was replaced with the twisty mantra of “A shepherdess makes quite a mess, but little lambs are lovely.”  It was almost a relief for the children when they disappeared in the middle of the night, leaving Wolf and Rose to fend for themselves.

Still, the siblings stuck together through thick and thin, feast and famine.  Even when Wolf was captured and imprisoned in Snow White Memorial Prison almost twenty years to the day after their first meeting, Rose remained in the woods nearby, waiting for his release or escape.

But that is a story for another chapter.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

_Thousand-Mile Forest, 4 miles north of Snow White Memorial Prison_

Prince Wendell Winston Walter White was bored.

He often found himself as much, but today seemed to have set a new standard.  For the past few hours, the heir apparent to the Fourth Kingdom throne had been stuck sitting, just sitting, in a carriage.  The vehicle was comfortable enough, with thick velvet cushions and wide windows through which to see the passing scenery, but it made little difference to his mood.  Outside the sun shone brightly against a clear, blue sky while birds twittered to each other, their cheerfulness seeming to mock his confinement.  Leaning against the window, he glowered at the lush, green forest passing by, hating that he couldn’t be out there chasing down the local wildlife.

Hating too that his only company on this endless journey was his man, Giles, an elderly gentleman with perpetual frown lines and a strong sense of decorum.  Wendell had known the man for as long as he could remember, yet both had spoken less than ten words since leaving the palace.  Conversation had never the senior man’s strong suit, and the younger man, begrudgingly, wasn’t about to take responsibility for the trips’ entertainment.

“So where exactly are we going?” Wendell demanded when he couldn’t take the silence any longer.

“To Beantown in the southwest corner of your kingdom, sire.  You’re accepting the throne that the craftsmen there have made for your corona—”

Before Giles could drone on further, Wendell interjected, “Well, is it much further?  Can’t we stop and going hunting or something?”

“Very shortly, sir.  We must make a brief stop at the Snow White Memorial Prison.”

This was _not_ the answer Wendell wanted to hear, so he made his displeasure known with an audible groan and eye roll.

“Your stepmother has applied for parole again,” Giles merely continued, “which we will, of course, turn down.  It’s simply a routine, courtesy visit.”

Wendell, of course, knew all of this already, and Giles knew that he knew it.  These details had already been to him multiple times by his ministers, and any chance that the prince’s displeasure would change them was hopeless.  Even now, he still didn’t understand why _he_ personally had to venture so far for such trivial matters.

“Ho there!,” a voice suddenly called from outside the carriage to Wendell’s right.  Both he and Giles peered out to see a hooded figure running from the forest towards them, clutching a basket in one hand.  As the person waved the other hand to further attract the driver’s attention, the hood fell back to reveal a young woman with dark hair.

“You going my way?” the figure hailed to the driver as she came alongside, jogging to keep pace with them.

“Piss off,” the driver curtly replied.

Undeterred, the woman fell back a bit until she was abreast with the carriage door.  Up close, Wendell could now see that she was about his age, with a dark brown tangle of curls and bright blue-green eyes.  Oh, and a smudge of dirt marked her cheek.

“Any chance of lift, sirs?,” she asked both men, her voice a little more ragged now as she struggled to stay even with the window.  “I can ride on the back.  Won’t be any trouble.”

_No formalities?  No attempt at a curtsy?  Who did this woman think she was?!_   Wendell was just about to ask as much, but luckily, for her, Giles spoke up first.

“Be gone, girl. Go grate on someone else.”

His tone when he spoke was considerably less refined or patient than it had previously been with Wendell.  It might have been a trick of the sunlight, but Wendell was sure he saw a flash of blue light emit from her eyes at this response.  Yet, she made no further protests and soon retreated.

“I hate these outer provinces,” Wendell declared, once again slumping back against his seat.  “People are so common.”  Giles only shrugged his shoulders.

“Common” or not, Wendell couldn’t resist twisting around to take one last peek at the girl through the rear window.  She was still walking along the road, though her pace had slowed considerably as she now focused on the contents of her basket.  _What was she looking for?  Did she have any idea whose carriage she had just tried to hitch a ride with?  Would she have cared if she did?_   Wendell squinted at her dwindling form, observing the curtain of hair falling haphazardly across her face, the dingy blouse, the dark green kirtle and plain leather belt.  He couldn’t deny she was pretty, albeit in a disheveled, woodland elf sort of way.

Nevertheless, pretty girls were abundant in his kingdom, each one determined than the next to be labelled “the fairest of them all” by any man, and especially by Wendell.  Unfortunately, their beauty became less awe-inspiring with each encounter, quickly blending into a mundane swirl.  This peasant girl was likely no different, he was certain.

“How much longer, Giles?” Wendell moaned as he grabbed a nearby pillow and shoved it behind his head.  Any interest in the girl already forgotten as soon as she was out of sight.

*          *          *          *

Only when the carriage had rounded a bend and turned out of view did Rose dare to look up from her basket.  Even then, only when the rustling branches swallowed the sound of horse hooves did she push her hair back from her face and remove her still twitching hand from under the basket’s lid.  Of their own accord, her curls twisted themselves into a simple bun at the nape of her neck, secured with a bobby pin that flew into place from a pouch hanging from her belt.

Her hand was not so easily tamed.  A single blue spark escaped from her pointer finger, bouncing off the basket’s edge and landing on a small rock at her feet.  Said rock instantly began to skip a few feet along the gravel road before bursting into a shower of glittery dust.  Rose breathed a sigh of relief.  As harmless as the conjuring had been (for once), she still clenched her hand into a tight fist to contain any other errant sparks.  When no more emerged, she drew her hood back over her head—you could never be sure what or who might still be watching—and continued down the path.  Her boots crunched any remaining glitter into oblivion.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she had tried to catch a ride from the royal carriage in the first place.  Previous experience had taught her that a farmer’s wagon was much more likely to oblige her request.  Maybe it was the twinge of a growing blister on her right heel, combined with the weight of her basket and the miles left to walk that evening.  The full moon was due in four days, so she had spent the afternoon gathering wolfsbane and mandrake root for Wolf.  Back in her shelter just downstream from Snow White Memorial Prison, she would create a tincture from the plants and deliver it to her brother in time to stave off the worst of his lupine symptoms.  Such potent herbs weren’t abundant in the Thousand-Mile Forrest, so Rose had to travel farther and farther from home each month to find enough.

Or perhaps her spontaneity had been due a simple desire to view the richly appointed carriage and its occupants up close.  Yes, there had been no mistaking exactly who the vehicle belonged to, even from a distance.  In her rustic, homespun world, it seemed a welcome change to be able to momentarily glimpse into the lavish, comfortable lifestyle of royalty.  To have a new story to share with Wolf during their next visit.

Like so many in the province, Rose also knew well Prince Wendell’s countenance from his portrait hanging in almost every shop and home.  As he grew from youth to manhood, Rose more frequently overheard the twittering of shepherdesses and village girls over his smile and golden hair, declaring him to be the bravest and kindest of princes.

How surprised they would be at reality’s stark contrast!  There had certainly been no kindness in Wendell’s pinched, skulking demeanor.  Rose had no illusions that she wasn’t a dirty, haggard mess after an afternoon stooped over plant life, nor did she expect any sort of special treatment, but the utter disgust in his gaze had still been like a lightning bolt to her pride.  None of the sideways glances or hissed insults she and her family had received over the years had made her feel lowlier.  He hadn’t even had the gallantry to reject her himself, letting his servants speak for him instead.  If being immensely wealthy and riding in a coach meant having so little regard for your common subjects, then she would just as soon walk the entirety of the Nine Kingdoms on shards of broken glass than accept any of his charity.

Indeed, regardless of her motivations, she was in the same situation now that she had been in before that moment, with only her resolve and two tired feet to guide her back home.  Just as it always was and would be.

“A shepherdess makes quite a mess, but little lambs are lovely,” she mumbled to herself, readjusting the basket on her elbow.

It was curious how this simple mantra could have so many different meanings.  When it was first uttered by her belated parents, it had been a sinister catechism.  A reminder to their children that everything has consequences, especially for wolves.  The inclusion of “little lambs” also appealed to their seemingly insatiable hunger in later years, becoming even more deranged when chanted under a full moon.  To Wolf, however, it was a cunning little ditty hummed in the midst of some mischievous plot.  With a twinkle in his eye and a wolfish smirk, each repetition seemed to give him confidence.

If she were aiding him in his scheme, Rose couldn’t help being equally motivated.  But in this moment, on her own, the words had the opposite effect.  Each utterance cautioned her to moderate her emotions and, more importantly, contain her power.  Small actions were easier to control and overcome than bigger “messes.”  In other words, no matter how annoyed she was by Prince Wendell and his manservant’s dismissal, it was far better to expel her indignation by turning a rock into dust than, say, the carriage into a pumpkin.

Or better yet, transform the royal brat himself into a pitiful toad.  Make him hop every inch of the gravel road just to teach him a lesson in humility, as the fairies of old would have done.  As erratic as Rose’s magical abilities could be, there was no denying that the image of His Highness capering about, complete with a scepter and crown, made her snicker.

And it was for that very reason that she continued to whisper the mantra to herself as she strolled along.  Any seriousness though was now somewhat tainted by the more comical mental image at the forefront of her imagination.

* * *

 

_Thanks for reading! Until next time . . ._

_“Rose are red_  
_Violets are blue_  
_Please subscribe or comment_  
_And leave a kudos too”_


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Even given its purpose, Snow White Memorial Prison was a dreary sight to behold, a towering fortress of pale stone and iron bars.  In its wake, the dark green forest and hills surrounding it became more intimidating, towering higher and casting darker shadows than even the sun could supersede.  Then there was the cherry on the top of the incarceration sundae: a line of rusty, wrought iron cages hanging along the front path, some of which still contained the moldering, vulture-pecked remains of former prisoners.

The overarching effect of these details was inherent to anyone who saw it: go away and stay away!  Not only did the facility currently house some of the worst villains in the history of the Nine Kingdoms, but the prison itself had become the stuff of legend, a vile conflation of rehabilitation and sadism.

Yet Wendell only yawned as the carriage rolled through the front gates and up a narrow, bumpy drive.  In his short 21 years, he had grown used to a certain type of response to his presence.  Wherever he went, enthusiastic fanfare followed.  Trumpets erupted when he entered a ballroom, accompanied by tumultuous applause.  As he walked by, his subjects bowed or curtsied before him, bright smiles immediately plastered on their faces.  If he were visiting a local village, there might be a speech in his honor by the mayor, or little girls throwing flower petals and confetti in his path.  His audience today would be made up of prisoners and guards, but Wendell still expected no less pageantry.

Only there was no such display when the carriage finally came to a halt.  Instead, the front yard was entirely empty, no banner or cheering crowd in sight.  A grim cluster of guards wasn’t even waiting to greet them, as they would for even the lowliest of incoming prisoners.

“Well, this is marvelous, isn’t it?” Wendell grumbled as he exited the carriage.  “Not exactly the red carpet treatment.”

“I’m sure they won’t have forgotten about our visit, Your Majesty” Giles replied as he brushed past the young prince.

Smug satisfaction spreading across his face, Wendell watched as the elderly man stormed to the large, iron-studded entry door, pounded the knocker once, and then entered without waiting for a response.  Yes, the prison wasn’t exactly known for its hospitality, but that was no reason to shirk royal propriety.  Wendell only wished he could be there to witness Giles’ confrontation with the prison warden.

Keeping an eye on the door, Wendell began to pace in front of the carriage.  Five minutes passed, but the door remained firmly closed.  At one point, he looked up, noting the lack of guards standing post in the watchtowers above.  Come to think of it, he couldn’t see anyone in any of the surrounding turrets and ramparts.  That was odd—when had prison security become so lax?  He—or more likely, Giles—would have to remember to bring up the matter at the next Council meeting.

Another five minutes, and still no warden stumbled forth with blubbering apologies.  No sign of Giles’ return either.  Really, this was getting ridiculous!  Did they expect him to remain there all evening, waiting like some serving maid for her fairy godmother?

“Giles?” he finally called out.  “Giles?”  When there was, unsurprisingly, no response, he decided he had been inconvenienced long enough and marched to the door.

The door was a little heavier than he anticipated, but Wendell managed to push open it enough to let himself in.  A shadowy antechamber lay in front of him, empty except for a few benches and haphazard crates.

 “Hello?  Giles?” he tried again, certain that someone will have heard him this time.

Behind him, the door slammed shut, and Wendell turned around.  Suddenly, it was clear why there had been no one present to greet him.  Impaled on several spikes on back of the door was Giles.  Blood stained the front of his jacket, dripping into a small puddle on the stone floor, and his head slumped unnaturally against his chest.

No sooner had Wendell taken in his advisor’s lifeless form than a pair of hands grabbed him from behind.

 “Hello, Princey!” a grating male voice shouted in his ear.

In the dim light, Wendell could just make out the shaggy black hair, bulbous nose, and distended teeth of his attacker.  He was most definitely a troll, if the accompanying stench of leather and sweat was any indication, and strong to boot.  As if Wendell weighed no more than an apple, the troll jerked him hard backwards into the adjacent wall.

No, not a wall.  Another troll, shorter and ganglier than the first, but no less enthusiastic in his violence.  This one wasted no time in punching him in the jaw and kneeing him in the stomach.  Wendell stumbled from the impact, but before he could hit the ground, a pair of hands caught him and rammed him face-first into the stone wall.

“Did that hurt?,” teased the second troll.  “I’d like you to meet my sister.”

A dizzying spin, and Wendell collided with the aforementioned sister, who immediately boxed his ears and tore at his jacket.  The trio half-dragged, half-kicked him around the room, pitching him from one wall into another whenever he tried to deflect their blows.  At one point, the female troll pushed him backwards so that he tripped over one of her crouching brothers.  His body ached as it connected with the stone floor, and when he tried to crawl away, the room seemed to spin.

“Now he’s mine,” one of the male trolls declared from above him.

 “Ah-ah, I get the first shot,” the female troll protested.

 “You had the first last time.”

“Enough!” commanded a new female voice behind Wendell.  A very familiar voice that instantly brought Wendell back to a cold, sickly chapter of his childhood.   The trolls backed away, and he slowly stood up to face the one person he had hoped never to see again.

Even after a decade in maximum security, his stepmother was still captivating.  She wore a dark green velvet cloak and purple gown, both of which appeared fresh and clean in spite of the dingy surroundings.  The hood was pulled back just enough to reveal perfectly coiffed auburn hair, a porcelain complexion, and piercing eyes.

A few paces behind her lurked a fourth troll.  This one was older than the other three, but carried himself with quiet menace, like a wolf just waiting for the right moment to strike.

“You’re a long way from your castle, Wendell,” his stepmother goaded as she approached him.  “Perhaps you should have stayed there.  My silly, little stepson.”

Indeed, Wendell would rather he was safe and sound at home right now, or even back on a boring carriage ride with Giles, but he wasn’t about to admit that to her.  If the aptly titled Evil Queen was freed from her cell, and these trolls had helped her, then he had more pressing matters on his hands.  Matters that could mean the difference between peace and anarchy in the entire Nine Kingdoms.

Drawing his shoulders back, Wendell cast her what he hoped was a firm and most regal glare.  “Y-y-you will pay for this.”

It was a feeble defensive strategy at best, more to stall for time while he could think of a better plan.  Unfortunately, his stepmother saw right through him.

 “On the contrary,” she simpered with a wry smile that sent his stomach plummeting, “I think that you will beg at my feet for food.”  Her eyes never leaving him, she bent down to what he now noticed was a large, golden retriever sitting at her feet.

“Do you know what this is?” she continued, beginning to methodically stroke the dog’s head with a gloved hand.  “This is a very special kind of dog.  This is a magical dog.”

As she petted the dog, its fur beneath her hands seemed to glow brighter in the dim light.  The dog shifted as if in anticipation under her ministrations, its equally bright eyes fixing on the prince.  Wendell, too, found himself so transfixed by the stare that he almost missed the Queen’s next words.

“I hope you like dogs, Wendell—you’re going to spend the rest of your life as one.”

What happened next only took a few seconds, but felt much longer.  The Queen released the dog, who instantly bounded for Wendell.  He tried to back away, raising his arms in defense, but the dog still reared up and put its paws squarely on his chest.  On impact, the dog began to grow in size and shape, its fur and nose shifting into a human face and body.  Wendell’s face and body, albeit with an inquisitive, tongue-lolling expression.

In turn, Wendell’s own body began to shrink, his perspective shifting so that he was looking up, light and colors blending into a muted haze.  His skin and bones likewise twisted painfully as they morphed into a new, smaller form.  The trolls’ triumphant laughter now echoing in his ears, Wendell tried one last time to call for help, but only a canine bark emerged.

Yes, he most definitely should have stayed at home today.  And the Council was going to get an earful when he got back.

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